Cataracts
hobble- but won’t blind
atrophied eyes that see
never suffer enough to stop looking
guided by shadows and stubbornness
vindicated by the rising sun.
In that maze of coherency
success looks like an ending with no beginning
harsh edges dulled by confidence
affirmation is all that remains
regard that I can see enough to know I once saw better
despite this
the result is the same
the sun always setting.
The hand raised high
is hung on the hook
of a distant light;
digits cradling an unseen flower
while shadows collect – condensation,
beaded below
lengthy limbs
dropping into a river of darkness
that ends hidden
beneath
sheer cloth.
Farther down
slender legs – rushing waterfalls
against the floor
frozen in time;
where the toes plunge
the heel and the arch
splash
playfully above.
Though the music has stopped
the moment remains poised for the future
until then,
we wait.
The canvas is bright with lights
there lies the future – burning
the dark sutured around it like a wound
slowly cauterized
Violence
strikes in the night
expressed as darkness in geometry
the light extinguished
in triangles
squares
rectangles.
The world disappears
panic is hidden amongst the shadows
the future is mourned
The past ignites in old fires
rising high into the clouds
the corpse pyres of dying dreams
wake something primal.
Dancing flames tell stories
our eyes would not otherwise hear
hearts are warmed while minds break
the end is bright.
Standing against the crowd like river rocks
gears whirring in a clock with hands outstretched,
static against motion,
his eyes are loud against deafening stock
herding towards boxes and locks that pay well
sapping their emotions.
The boy is alone swallowed by the swarm
a cold drop in warm water unnoticed
soon enough devoured
falling to the ground prone, beneath the storm
trying to conform, become safe like stone.
I left him there cowered.
I left part of me there as well
both of us settling into hell.
A pool of water on the floor
reflecting fractured porcelain
I had not ever seen before.
Footsteps like tears lead out the door
taking with them my oxygen.
Who is it that has found this place
my sad forest of broken things?
Who takes lazy steps with such grace?
Do they know what the night will bring
that bleak and haunted carapace?
Surely, they know not of those ghosts,
or they would not ever have come,
I think and follow their breadcrumbs.
I still have a duty as host
to shake hands and bid them welcome.
Oh! If only it were that plain,
to find things in this place again!
The cracks and crevices have grown
far beyond what I can explain
None of it is yet set in stone.
The walls will move from here to there
when they think you are unaware.
The floor will find stairs if it please
and remove them with the same ease
always some laughter in the air.
Hands formed for functions unrealized
land distressed on like minded wood planks
an unwanted applause
They approach this way
Emergency room eyes
Obsidian
shaped as sharp daggers
cutting the dark with fractures of light
They approach this way
Sounds of protest drown in midnight fluids
like tree sap and pistons
stretched thin
desperate for the floor
They approach this way
I am static and stagnation
as broken as the horror before me
crucified with thick nails of decisions undecided
They approach.
The pilot light defies the dark
a flickering of potential
this is every Tuesday now.
What was at one time once a month
then every few weeks
has become common place somehow
Though the basement is an abandoned place
left to the wires, pipes and tubes
of all the hidden movements in the house
this quiet void
is the most ambitious.
Disjointed limbs
sprawled about in darkness
pressed hard against a sullen mirror
as if anything can be seen here
in darkness.
All potential lies beneath
locked away – boxed up – unseen
a forest of teeth
dormant
unfed
and waiting
in darkness
The outside is gilded rococo
feathered geometry
swimming like creamed coffee
the dissonance of naivety marbled
in darkness
Lift the lid
watch the darkness hide away
the limbs snap in place
the dancer takes the stage
the teeth gnash and grind
but it sounds like music in the air
We dance until exhausted
until those teeth need to be fed again
and you look down at the silence
only to see your own image reflected
in darkness.
There is no such thing as sound
in this cold tranquil place
where light is too busy to stop
and every movement is a drop
that could leave you in space
never again to be found
There is no such thing as sound
but you can feel your heart pound
with every mass ejection
that rushes your direction
In this cold tranquil place
the indiscretion of a star
can easily erase
any dreams you had thus far
Where light is too busy to stop
do not find yourself in its way
for there you can not stay
a storm to a nest in the treetops
And now I am space bound
listening for signs of grace
spinning like a damaged top
where light is too busy to stop.
In this cold tranquil place
there is no such thing as sound.
Wait
In shadows
the dark like water
Swimming
Against the current
a weight to the chest holding you
Down
Beneath the rot
where light is afraid to come
Out
Of sight and mind
patiently waiting for the moment
When
Will it end
or should I end it
myself
Grow Gray With Me 